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Monday, July 9, 2012

Good Grief: months 1 & 2

Over the last five months, I've written some notes about the grief I've experienced. Just keep in mind, these notes describe the worst moments and not the times when I feel better, hopeful, even happy :) I'm convinced that grief heals, hence the title "Good Grief."

One month:
The first month or two after Elle's accident, I felt grief in waves. I was still in shock but didn't know it. Often the grief would sneak up on me and wash over me violently. But then it would retreat quickly, and I would go on trying to navigate the strange state my life was in.
In "A Grief Observed," C.S. Lewis wrote, "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness.... I keep on swallowing." I feel that and a sense of profound dread, like in nightmares, when I "remember" she's gone.

Two months:
I feel the grief settling in on me and moving in for a longer stay. I no longer feel it in waves; I am standing neck-deep in a flood of longing for my baby girl who was just here, and who I won't ever see again in this life. The sadness lives with me and weighs heavily on my heart and holds a thousand tears behind my eyes. The tears leak out whenever I'm alone—in the car, washing dishes, in the shower, on my bike, lying in bed late at night or before I get up in the morning. I hear myself make sounds I never made before I lost her. Moans that hurt my chest and come from somewhere so deep inside it is primal. I often think The loss is too great.

Life goes on, so I fight to stay in a space where I can function normally. I fight because it would be so easy to let the grief consume me, and I won't be a shell of a mother for my kids.

I'm profoundly disappointed. I don't get to have her. Not in my entire lifetime.

The kids at their young ages have to face the harsh reality that someone you love deeply can suddenly disappear from your life.

I thought Heavenly Father would never take one of our children. That He knew I was not the kind of person who could emotionally survive a loss of this magnitude. I realize I've been feeling betrayed.

But just as suddenly as that realization hits, I know I'm wrong. Heavenly Father is the last Being who would ever betray me. And the Savior has experienced my loss through my eyes and heart. I know They will heal me.

2 comments:

Jen V said...

It's so interesting that you said you're "not the kind of person who could emotionally survive a loss of this magnitude" b/c every time someone learns about what happened or asks me how you are doing I repeat my mantra that you are and have always been my hero AND that I don't know anyone, any couple, any family that could get through such a horrendous tragedy - other than your family.
You are so dedicated to researching, reading, learning, understanding every phase of grief and are so thoroughly committed to your children - it constantly amazes me.
I just told a friend the other day that I don't know a more spiritually and emotionally healthy family than yours. You are also such a close family. You and Rob have intentionally, relentlessly, unselfishly designed an amazing life for yourselves, your children and for future generations to come. (Your lucky grandkids!!)
I'm so grateful that you have fought so hard against being all consumed by the grief. You know all too well how easy that is to do. After Dad died, I let myself drown. I am so grateful that Patrick was so understanding and that we didn't have any kids at the time.
I remember you telling me about your difficult pregnancies and your "wish" being granted. I hope you remember that feeling every. single. day.
You have sacrificed and been blessed with that "wish" hold on to that. I do.
I love you so much!

Jacqui said...

Lorenne,

Every time I read one of your posts about Elle I cry and cry. This one is especially poignant. And then I want to say so much to you, about how much I admire you and ache for you and your family. But I don't know how to say it, so usually I don't say anything. Not saying anything seems too silent and uncaring, but how can I express that when I think of you and your pain, I can't help but apply it to my life and wonder how I would react to such a loss. I don't think I could be so strong, and yet I know you don't express everything on this blog and you must have moments where you completely lose it.

To say that I admire your strength and that you inspire me is not expressing enough of how I feel. I admired you and stole parenting ideas from you way before you lost sweet Elle. And now, even in your grief, I glean strength from you. I admire how you lean on the Savior and find eternal meaning as you deal with your life without your baby girl...

And here I am, again without words to express my deepest sympathies and amazement at your perspective. Everything I think of sounds trite, but is heartfelt. We still pray for the Evans family every day.